Dragon Age: After The Fall
by BloodVendetta
Summary: Life in Thedas has been altered forever by the recent Mage Uprising. This tale portrays how the rebellion affects the DA world through the eyes of a few OC's. Kirkwall is gray and at war, will heroes rise or are there only victims remaining in the world?
1. Prologue: After The Fall

Hey Everyone! I hope you enjoy the story. It will be told mostly through the eyes of original characters, and I am unsure yet if I am going to integrate the POV's of any of the know characters. Read & Review please! Let me know what you guys think.

This is the first story that I have put up and will be posting each chapter as I finish it. Give it a chance and tell me what you like/dislike, love/hate about it. I'll respond to all comments and reviews. The writer is nothing without the readers so I hope you guys like it! To avoid confusion I will tell you right now that in the Prologue each paragraph represents a different character.

So without further ado, here is the prologue of Dragon Age: After The Fall.

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Prologue

The rain hadn't stopped for days and the crowded tavern smelled like mold, wet wool, and sweat. The room was filled with smoke, which rose from the pathetic excuse for a fireplace on the back wall, only about half of which was finding its way up the chimney. A weathered warrior, adorned in a robe of black sat at the bar, enjoying the local ale. Kirkwall had fallen, the rebellion of mages had caused many innocent lives to perish, but the weathered warrior had survived. His escape from the burning city was harsh, violent, and lucky to say the least. Nevarra had become quite the refuge for the escaped, and the man found himself completely out of place in the city, except for in the taverns, where the brew was cheap and the rooms were quiet. The Tumbling Crown had been his frequent as of lately, and seemed to be the only in the entire city still refraining from becoming direly overcrowded. To this man, there was nothing like a good drink to wash away the memories of a life so cold. He had grown up on his father's farm, trained in the ways of the sword under his uncle, who was an ex-Grey Warden, and more importantly a master of sorts when it came to the art and dance of the blade. He and his brave uncle defended the family farm from the invading Qunari when the bastards attacked the city, himself being the only survivor. Cold and alone the young warrior drinks his sorrows away day by day, a task that is proving much more difficult that he imagined. As the weathered warrior finished his drink, he stood; his blonde hair falling loosely around his shoulders. He laid his three bits on the table, and pulled his hood over his head as he walked out into the Maker forsaken rain.

After all he had seen the doubtful Templar had all but regained his faith. From the beginning of Meredith's fall to insanity, he had begun to question his life in the Order. He felt the same as many of his comrades; he knew she was right, but…her methods were to extreme. His mother had been a mage, alike was his daughter; they both were put to death during the outrage; his beloveds killed by the very hands that he had sworn to serve. Meredith killed them without mercy, his daughter, only seven years old; fell before his eyes as he was bound. He was looked upon as a traitor, a conspirator to apostates, and now as an enemy to the Order. The accusations were not fair, but true, he told himself. He had sacrificed everything for the Templars…for his Maker; even his own family under the conviction that it was the right thing to do. His mother had despised him for it, and the look in his daughter's eyes, her disappointment, her sadness destroyed a piece of him. The night of the rebellion, the doubtful Templar's heart changed and he attempted to aid his loved ones in their escape, but even with these new intentions, he failed. It turns out that a change of is far from enough to redeem the wrongs of yesterday and he blames no one but himself. Now, a fugitive, he runs from his own Order, one he refuses to deny, one he has sworn to avenge, and one he has vowed to return to its justice. Looking to the sign, he knew he had finally arrived at his destination, Nevarra city. With a sigh he looks around, lost but determined, and continues on his path.

Her beauty would never go unnoticed, for the beautiful assassin was a master of deceit. She had been trained in many arts of battle, seduction being one of her most dangerous weapons. The information she had just received had of course come with a price; a price she found both pleasurable and fun. She positioned her bow perfectly on her back and her daggers at her waist. She was after a man, and she knew now exactly how to track him down. The Crows had taught her well, and she loved the thrill of a hunt. Everything about her screamed perfection, her pure black hair blowing sensually in the wind, her bright green eyes shining with the light of the fire, and her body moving with the grace of the most legendary of angels; all assets that proved ideal for her craft. For a human, she had done quite well for herself in the Crows, and now that her contract had taken her out of Antiva for the first time, needless to say, she couldn't be happier. The beauty of Nevarra spoke to her; its buildings and cultural artwork were extravagant in their own ways and totally unlike anything she had ever seen, but she knew her mission and would not let anything distract her...not even the Maker himself could pull her from the task at hand. She was a master of her craft, poisons, traps, archery, dual-sword play, all were in her repertoire, each one proving as deadly as the last. Her life had been hard, but she had always found the fun in her job, her way of life. Murder was her bliss, and the hunt was her drug.

The old mage's body ached all over. He hadn't traveled like this since his days as an apostate, which even to say was a long…long time ago would be an understatement. He had decided as a young man that submitting to the Circle was the wisest decision, but he had always possessed his doubts. Over time, the old Mage mastered his magic, his face now weathered from a rough life as well as age, and his hair now gray; he is only a shadow of who he was in his prime. The man held knowledge of things, things about magic that had seemed long forgotten in this land. From Ferelden he made his journey to Kirkwall, only to hear of the rebellion about half way. The old mage was a peaceful man, a man of trust, and of honor...a dying breed. Long ago he had fallen in love with a young Templar woman, who through fate's irony became the only thing holding him to the Circle. Their love was one of unnatural appeal, and despite the hopes and dreams the two carried within their hearts, they both new their togetherness would go nowhere. His lover was killed in duty, on a routine mission, shattering all the old mage held dear. He pondered his place in life, searching for a new path, and after years of lone travel caught word of the stirring tension between mages and Templars, the feud giving him a reason to continue on. He believed his skill would be of more use there than in Ferelden and so he left, venturing out towards a land that he had never seen and into a growing fray that he knew would be his last. He was to late though; the battle had ended even before it had really begun. The Champion had been victorious and the mages of Kirkwall through rebellion had been set free. Not a religious man, the old mage sought a purpose, and hoped that the refuge city of Nevarra would hold his fate's destination.

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What did you think? Read & Review to let me know how you felt about the story so far! Thanks for reading :)


	2. Chapter 1: A Warrior

I hope you enjoyed the prologue! This is the first true chapter of "After The Fall" and it focuses on the character introduced in the first paragraph of the prologue. Each chapter will focus on each of those characters in the order that they appeared in the prologue and will chronicle their journey throughout the story. Thanks to **Pintsizedpsyhco** for my very first review, your positive feedback is what gave me the drive to finish chapter one :). Remember guys, review and comment, let me know what you think.

Well here it is folks, chapter one of _Dragon Age: After The Fall_

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**Chapter 1: A Warrior's Promise**

The young warrior's path home was muddy to say the least. He was used to this kind of weather though, so it didn't act as much of a hindrance. Once he reached the inn where he had stayed a few days before he paid the keeper for an extra night and headed up the stairs towards his room. Not much more than an old fireplace and a makeshift mat on the floor, his room, if it truly could be called such a word, would surely suffice once again. He had no place in this world now, not after everything had been taken from him, so he didn't fret much about worldly comforts.

A copy of the Chant of Light sat gathering dust upon the end table, and as every time that he had entered this room, he could not take his eyes off of it. The book was as evil as what it stood for, he hated it, and he hated its Maker. The young, weathered warrior was once a believer; he used to look up to Andraste for answers during his times of tribulation and strife, but no more. As far as he is concerned the Chantry is nothing more than a false hope in a world filled with nothing but darkness. He rose suddenly and threw the wretched book into the fireplace…where it belonged, to burn into a million ashes. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered the night that his family was taken from him. Templars patrolled, as was their routine, near his family's farm when the attack was struck. The Qunari invaded Kirkwall, the surrounding areas as well, just in order to fulfill some damned religious crusade. The Templars fled to protect their Knight Commander, and left him and his family to die; if it wasn't for his uncle's noble sacrifice providing him a time to escape, he would've fallen right there alongside his family.

Now though, he questioned, which would be worse, dying with the ones you love, or surviving without them? He knew the answer, knew that his survival was a mistake, but it was the plea of an uncle's last words. Would he forsake that now, after all this time, after five years of trying to uphold such a miserable promise? No. The young and weathered warrior was too strong to let go, he would live for his family, his uncle, and for all who had suffered at the hands of these lost and tyrannous religions, but the misery of his choice would be felt each and every day he that he did so. He finally gathered his emotions, calming his anger, his grief, and his hatred, and fell upon the excuse for a bed. He could feel the harsh chill of the cold stone floor below him, and shivered a bit due to his damp clothes.

As his eyes closed, his spirit awoke in the Fade, he dreamed of that night, the slaughter of his family, the destruction of all he had ever known. He could see the disappointment in his father's face, the saddened glare of failure in his mother's, he felt as though they blamed him. They screamed at him, told him he wasn't strong enough, that he was nothing. The anger in his uncle's eyes was what broke him though, and he lingered in that moment. He had failed them, and by his failure, in his not being good enough…he had killed them. Awaking in a cold sweat, violently and fierce, the warrior's eyes stretched open as a scream beckoned its way from his lungs. He sat awake for the remainder of the night, questioning himself, his place in a world that would only grow darker. He lived a life of chaos, of bloodshed, but of weakness.

Even his name reminded him of his failure. It was a fine name; one modeled after his grandfather's, one he did not deserve. Chaos and hatred were what defined him now, a normal life would never suit him again, and he knew that his incessant drinking was just wasting him away one day at a time. He would change his ways, he had to, or he fade into the weakness that had caused him to lose everything. He would never be weak again. Much as his life was forced into nothingness, he vowed to force himself to adapt. Strong willed but broken, he realized his place. He was to live by his own rules and not by those of some religion, avenge his fallen family, but forget his name. He was no longer the same man, no longer simply a young warrior with a handsome yet weathered face; that man had died five years ago and so he now would become the very thing that had destroyed his life, but the only thing that could avenge it…chaos.

A new goal filled his broken heart, to become the most powerful warrior of all time, to be the best in the world, and so he changed. Living by a new code, and with a revived reason to live, he now only needed a new name. He had heard that a name could illuminate more about an individual than a thousand words describing them, and he believed this. The warrior needed the perfect name, a title of what he stood for and who he had become. In a single moment of epiphany and genius, he found his name; one that epitomized all that he was and all that he would be, one that stood against the way of the Maker and his followers, one of the old gods, Zazikel god of chaos.

Along with the amber of the sunrise, Zazikel rose up a new man. He gathered what little belongings he possessed; his sword of course, his small bag of clothing and other essentials, his map, and his journal. As he exited his room, he passed a beautiful woman with black hair, one who held his focus for a brief moment as she walked by. He saw something in her eyes; she was driven, obviously a deadly girl for the depth of her eyes displayed her skill, but she was not a concern of his, so then Zazikel the warrior reborn left the inn.

The dawn had begun to light up the city, showing off its intricate architecture. Statues of past heroes gleamed in gold and silver, beautiful gardens and flowers littered the streets of the capital, a site that could bring tears of beauty to the average adventurist, but nothing stood out to Zazikel, he simply walked. He passed by taverns and brothels, markets and smiths, even a family of beggars who claimed to be Kirkwall refugees and who had been robbed by bandits on the road. The family relayed the location of the highwaymen to the city guard and Zazikel over heard their position. He walked until eventually he reached the city's gate, and then continued. The closest settlement to Nevarra was Hunter Fell, but Zazikel decided not to go far. He patrolled the outskirts of the city, not a true destination in mind, but he continued in the direction of the supposed highwaymen.

It turns out that the family had held a true tongue and as he found the small camp he advanced without the slightest of hesitations. Marching into the camp sword drawn, Zazikel did what it was that he was best at, and did not leave until every bastard thief was dead. After looting the camp, and burning all eleven of his deserved victim's bodies, Zazikel left the camp and their keepers in ashes. He pondered his reasoning for murdering the thieves, but for a moment. They were right there in front of him, they were corrupt, and they deserved to die. He knew the Maker would not deliver justice to his creations, so Zazikel would do what even the supposed creator of all seemed incapable of doing; fight for the oppressed. This path would help him in his quest to become powerful, for the world in his eyes was abundant with two things; oppression and corruption. He returned to the city gates, and sought out the family of beggars he had seen earlier. He handed the bag of coins over to the father, who counted over eleven sovereigns and thanked Zazikel elatedly.

"By the maker…Thank you sir. This is enough to feed my family for weeks. You are truly a hero in these dark times." The beggar said breathlessly to Zazikel.

"I am no hero, I am…simply here." Zazikel corrected the man before turning from him and walking away. His new outlook on life was confusing, even a little so to himself. He would not follow traditional beliefs of right and wrong, good or evil; he would simply follow his heart and live with no regrets. Every situation can be analyzed from far more than just one side, and acting without knowing makes the accuser just as guilty as the accused.

The markets of Nevarra were always in supply of only the top tier of items. From armor to blades, these top of the line shops provided the people what they needed to survive, and the city a prosperous economy. Zazikel found himself admiring the works of a merchant stand labeled 'Rivall's Blades & Blunt', and a rather large and burly man came to the front to greet him.

"Welcome to Rivall's, where you can be assured every one of my wares is perfect, and might I say perfectly priced as well. Today is your lucky day, everything in my shop is fifty percent off. Look around, if I can help you in any way Serah, simply let me know." The man said, wiping the sweat from his brow and wiping his hands on his filthy apron. Zazikel watched him for a moment; he recognized the truth in the man's eyes, the scars of work upon his hands. Clearly this man meant what he said; he held a passion for this craft, a passion for each of his creations. Zazikel nodded to the man, and looked at the selection. Axes, hammers, daggers, all looked to be of the finest quality, but Zazikel favored the blade; swords simply fit his style of war and was were his proficiencies were kept.

The greatsword Zazikel currently carried was old and dulling; he knew its time and worth were almost up. The weapon had served him well, but he understood that the time for a replacement was upon him. He browsed each of the blades; swords of veridium, silverlite, white steel, and even one's crafted out of dragon bone were among the pick, but it wasn't always about the grade of the blade or even about its enchantments, no it was about its song. To a true swordsman, each blade has its own personality. A blade will, in a sense, sing to a warrior, telling him that it is the one. And there it was, the one, a greatsword that held a blade of black, no doubt made of dragon bone. It was the most beautiful thing Zazikel had ever seen, but this blade was unusual, its song was more of a cry, a demand. He knew then that it was meant to his. Zazikel had nowhere near the amount of coin the blade was worth; fifty sovereigns was quite a price, even for a blade of that caliber, but it would be his. Zazikel then focused on the merchant, assumedly Rivall. Before when he was observing him, he had missed something about the man; he hadn't noticed the desperation on the man's face.

"Tell me, what is on your mind?" Spoke Zazikel bluntly. The man met him with a look of confusion and a sign of fear. Both men stood in silence for a moment, Rivall pondering the man's intentions. He had never seen this man before, but something in his eyes forced trust.

"My wife…and her sister were taken from me." Rivall answered, questioning as to why exactly he did so.

"I want the sword." Zazikel demanded, bringing even more confusion down upon the desperate man.

"I…I'm sorry…I'm not quite sure I see your meaning. What about my wife?" Rivall asked puzzled.

"It is simple. What are your wife and her sibling worth to you? Are they worth this blade?" Zazikel asked, motioning to the weapon he was referring to.

"I…of course they are…I would pay any price to have them returned. I'm not quite sure I understand Serah."

"Do you know where they are…your family I mean?" Zazikel inquired, never taking his eyes off of the blade.

"Well…yes, there was a note, a ransom note, they are held up near the forest, outside of town. There is a map. Sir, I'm sorry, but what is it you are talking about, I have never been so confused in all my years."

"Give me the map, I will return them to you safe, but the sword is mine." Zazikel explained simply.

"You cannot be serious, why would you help me. They are dangerous men…you are alone…one man couldn't even make it through…" Rivall countered before being cut off by Zazikel.

"Just give me the map. You will see your family again, but I expect the blade in return. Understood?"

"You are insane…but yet, I have no plan, no way of saving them….Fine, this is the map; they are located in the caverns near this rock. I don't know why but I believe you when you say you will rescue them. Serah please, they are all I have left in this world. Bring them back to me and you can have whatever of mine your heart desires." Rivall promised, still not knowing what exactly it was about this warrior that made him believe in his words. Zazikel took the map, and immediately leaving Rivall in confusion and anxiety. He steadily headed in the direction of the caverns without even a second thought; that sword would be his. Zazikel's path out of the city and to the cavern was a blur, we was focused on the mission at hand, not the world around him. He readied his blade as approached the entrance, and entered with caution. He turned each corner defensively as he made his way through the cavern. He met his first enemy setting near a fireplace; the man immediately drew his blades and charged Zazikel. Grace and speed were the man's upmost assets, but his skill was nowhere near the level of Zazikel's. With a single arc, the man was sundered at the waist. Zazikel then continued down the trail. Two men, petty raiders by the quality of their equipment, came at Zazikel from the side, but fell even before their blades met his, for like the reaper and his scythe, Zazikel lunged at them, ripping them apart with his blade. More men could be heard climbing up the handcrafted stairway to his left, and Zazikel readied himself, the moment they breached the top of the stairs Zazikel leaped into the air, bringing his blade upon a number of the raiders, the mighty blow of the attack killed the majority of the attackers and the rest fell with a single sweep. Climbing over the bodies, Zazikel traveled down the stairs, the smell of death filling his lungs.

He could see now, bodies piled up in every corner, and two women bound near a wall. More men noticed his arrival and charged. He was outnumbered; more than ten raiders surrounded him, closing in on him slowly. Zazikel smiled, bolstering himself, he put all of his weight into a single swing; spinning his body in a sweeping attack that cut down about half of the men, the rest backed away in fear before gathering the courage to attack him. He unleashed an unrelenting barrage of swings on his opponents, each one falling before him. Covered in blood and breathing hard from battle, Zazikel ran towards the two women. As he untied them, they began to scream in panic. Zazikel could feel the presence of someone else in the room. He turned to see an extremely large figure enter through a wooden doorway. He clinched his fist tightly as the Qunari readied his weapon. Both men stared the other directly in the eyes. The Qunari suddenly stopped; a pondering look upon his face.

"You are not the husband. You…are new to me. I was not hired to kill you, just to keep them here. I am Maraas, leave now and I will spare your life." The Qunari offered, lowering his blade. Zazikel remained ready, not moving. "You do not leave? This is something that surprises me. I show you mercy, yet you risk your life for these prisoners. Is their survival worth your death?"

"Their survival is relevant to my needs, but a chance to kill any of your kind is worth any cost to me." Zazikel countered, taking a step closer to the Qunari.

"You refer to my race. I am not Qunari nor am I Tal-Vashoth, as I said I am Maraas, I am nothing." The Qunari explained.

"Your relationship with your people means little to me. It is your skin and blood that make you Qunari, and for that, you will die here." Zazikel said softly, attacking immediately, not giving the Qunari another chance to talk. This fight proved more difficult than the rest, this warrior possessed more skill than all of the petty thugs within the cavern combined. Both men very similar in combat style, running off of raging adrenaline, they each swung their blades again and again, each one matching each other, counterign each other. The battle lasted more than five minutes but Zazikel eventually found his chance to gain advantage. The Qunari lowered his guard to swing with all his might, and Zazikel lunged the blade straight towards his opponent; his sword still sharp enough to pierce the vile creature all the way through and out the other side. The Qunari fell lifeless, and Zazikel returned to the frightened women. After untying them, he demanded silence and led them back to the city, where they were reunited with Rivall.

Making good on his promise, the weapon smith presented Zazikel with the blade. Holding the blade in his hands, Zazikel read aloud the inscription on the hilt.

"Nightfall…what a fitting title." Zazikel smirked as he spoke.

"Serah, you have my deepest gratitude. You have returned my family and restored my life. I hope that blade serves you well. If you ever need anything, anything at all I will be here." Rivall said, leading his family into their house. Zazikel had created a new life, obtained a weapon worthy of his skill, and now pondered what he had to do next.

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Comment and review to let me know how you like the story thus far :).


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